There But For The Grace Of You, Go I
by Carrion's Comfort
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he’d thought impossible.
1. Prologue

Title: There But For The Grace Of You, Go I.  
  
Rating: R  
  
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)  
  
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice  
  
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.  
  
Notes: If you want to feedback, feedback. Either way, this is just to get this damn idea out of my head. If you want to archive this, please ask. As this is un-betaed, I claim all responsibility for any mistakes. One thing I really should stress though. I am not a review-oriented writer. Don't get me wrong, I like them as much as the next author, but I will not be swayed by threats, pleas, or general berating reviews. I write for myself. First and foremost, and only when I can, which fluctuates a lot. I really cannot set a schedule for when this will be finished, except to say that I always finish what I write, even if it takes me a while to get there.  
  
PS Gear yourself people, I think this tale has every intention of becoming a monster epic. Think Tolstoy long ;)  
  
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Prologue  
  
The air of suppressed jubilation in the office didn't touch him. He scarcely noticed. And his work mates all made sure not to get too close to him. Michael Vaughn was not someone you wanted to get close to even if you wanted to.  
  
He was respected enormously and feared even more. As far as everyone could tell he had only one friend. Well, only one person that could even come close to classifying as a friend. Jack Bristow.  
  
Older agents with long memories and too much time on their hands often used to talk about Michael Vaughn ...'before', as they termed it. Before, he became one of the most feared agents in the CIA, before he spent at least nineteen hours in the office -even on holidays-, before he'd openly bring in his customary vodka to daily briefings...before the death of Sydney Bristow.  
  
Scuttlebutt claimed that for the first few months after her death, most of them expected Agent Vaughn to follow. But all anyone really knew was that Vaughn had disappeared four months after Sydney Bristow had died, and reappeared a month later. Fit and burning to get back to work.  
  
He became Devlin's worst nightmare.  
  
Whereas before, when necessary, they had been able to get him to toe the line, the new Vaughn was a complete maverick. Almost to the point of being considered a rogue agent. They would have fired him if they could, except it couldn't be done without him. They all knew, from Devlin down, that Vaughn was going to be integral in bringing down SD-6 and possibly the Alliance.  
  
The hate driving him gave him an edge; it was pure as mercury and just as lethal. They may have questioned his methods often, his sanity even more often, but they never questioned whether or not he got results. When Vaughn set out to do something. It was as good as done. And on the day he had come back to the CIA -after Sydney's death- he had told them he wanted to do only one thing. He wanted to see all the guilty parties pay. And if the CIA wouldn't help him, then he was prepared to go rogue, to mete down his own brand of justice on them. Long term goals, and national interest could go fuck.  
  
And Jack. Jack turned into his staunchest ally. Together the two of them began an all out assault on the Alliance. Dixon was recruited six months after Sydney's funeral, Devlin was only told after Dixon had successfully completed his first mission for them. Whilst the CIA may have been content to chip away at the Alliance, Vaughn and Jack wanted to blow it to pieces, and they did. Sometimes even literally.  
  
Which brought them to now.  
  
The eve of the final assault on SD-6.  
  
Both Vaughn and Jack had deliberately left this cell for last. They had wanted Arvin Sloane to suffer as much as possible. They had wanted him in a constant state of fear, they wanted him looking over his shoulder all the time, they wanted him never to have a moment's peace. They wanted him to live the life he had condemned Sydney to, for all those years.  
  
When every detail had been checked and checked again, when all the agents had repeated where and what they would be doing tomorrow to their satisfaction, Vaughn and Jack retreated to an old office with a bottle of Finlandia. Dedicating each shot to an absent friend or a remembered failure.  
  
"To Weiss, for being too damn good a friend." His voice was gravelly, as though it had not been in use for a while, who was there to talk to really, anyway.  
  
"To Marshall. For wanting to help so much." Jack answered.  
  
"To the years The Alliance stole from us all." The burn of the vodka eased the Vaughn's constant ache, if only for a moment.  
  
"To all the people who have tried to kill me. After tomorrow I'll promise not to duck." The clink of shot glasses was the only sign of tacit approval Vaughn gave to Jack.  
  
"To my father, who died for something he didn't even believe in."  
  
Jack had been floundering for what to toast next. He had so many failures to choose from, but Vaughn's words reminded him of whom he had to thank most.  
  
"To my darling wife. May she rot in hell." Their salute to each other was unconsciously sychronised.  
  
"To Arvin Sloane. May he spend the rest of his life in pain. Lots and lots of pain." Vaughn grinned at the thought. An ugly grin; more a feral baring of teeth.  
  
Jack sloshed more liquid into both their empty glasses, finding they had drunk a whole bottle and this was their last shot. He would have laughed drunkenly at the irony -because he was pretty sure they were both drunk-, but he felt no inclination to. Jack had stopped laughing years ago.  
  
"It's the last." He informed Vaughn quietly, indicating to the empty bottle.  
  
"Then lets not waste it." Was all the reply he got. Jack didn't expect anything more. He didn't need anything more.  
  
They both knew what they were dedicating the last shot to, what they were dedicating tomorrow's raid to, what they had dedicated the last couple of years of their lives to.  
  
"To Sydney." There was no bitterness to the toast. Just an ache for the woman they had both loved, and both lost.  
  
End Prologue  
  
Author's notes: Finlandia is rather expensive vodka. James Bond uses it (sorry I had to throw in the inter-spy reference). Oh and yes. Sydney -in person- will be appearing in this story. How you ask, well read it and find out. Chapter One should be out soon  
  
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	2. The Hollow Man

All disclaimers, summaries, and other assorted goodies in Chapter 1  
  
A/N: Firstly thank you to everyone for their reviews. I know I go on about how reviews don't change my mind -and they don't- but I must thank everyone for their encouragement and generally for the 'nice things' they had to say.  
  
Secondly, I promise you that Sydney will be appearing in this story in a non-non-corporeal way (to all those who posed that question).  
  
And thirdly just exactly how much older than Sydney is Vaughn? I've read a range from the same age to 8 years older. I thought it was 7/8 years myself, but I'm willing to take a poll from all those who suggest various ages.  
  
Lastly, the chapter is named after a poem by TS Eliot, and I purloined the second sentence from him.  
  
Oh and also, despite the time between chapters, I do think about this story quite regularly and strangely enough I actually know where I'm going with it. I hope you all like the trip I'm taking you on, and whilst this chapter is rather unremittingly angsty, I promise you not all will be quite so dark.  
  
Here endeth the lesson:)  
  
PS This Vaughn is not the Vaughn of the TV show. Remember that. He's looking through a glass darkly.  
  
**************************************  
  
Chapter 1  
  
The Hollow Man  
  
So this is how it ended. Not with a bang but with a whimper. Years of blood sweat and tears had been poured into this moment, and all Vaughn could feel was numb. It wasn't surprising really. But he had thought this day -the day she had worked so long and hard to see-, the day they had pinned all their hopes on, would have actually made him feel ... something ... anything. But as he walked through the debris strewing the floor of the SD-6 main office, the numbness, which had encased him for so many years, only seemed to seep further into his bones.  
  
In another life he would have felt sympathy for all the remaining agents of SD-6, finding out they were unwitting traitors to the country they thought they were protecting. He might have mourned the loss of lives both sides had suffered -Sloane had trained his agents well, and most had thought it was a repeat of the McKenna incident-, but Vaughn just wandered sightlessly through the mess.  
  
" Agent Vaughn, Agent Vaughn...Michael." Hearing Jack call him by given name, snapped him out of the daze he was falling deeper into.  
  
"What?" the deadened quality to his voice worried Jack, but it wasn't the time to query whether he was all right or not. Jack knew the answer, because he'd been standing in Vaughn's shoes about thirty years ago. Michael Vaughn was never going to be 'all right' ever again. He had debated the wisdom, of sharing this latest piece of news with Vaughn, but after all the years working together, after all they had been through, Jack respected Vaughn too much to try and shield him from anything. Besides he could deal with an angry Vaughn, he was used to it. He didn't think he could deal with the near catatonic man in front of him. There'd been only one other time he'd seen Vaughn like this, and that wasn't a time he ever wanted to revisit.  
  
"Agent Vaughn, we have Sloane."  
  
************************************************  
  
It was amazing how those five words had galvanized the man striding the down the hall ahead of him. Not only had he managed to crack through the catatonia, he seemed to have cracked the veneer of control Vaughn had managed for the last two years. Agents scuttled out of the way as he headed towards Sloane's cell, and even Jack found himself wondering if he'd be able to hold Vaughn back if he needed to. He had a very strong feeling he would need to.  
  
Sloane's cell was guarded heavily -as were all the Alliance leaders cells- but by some error neither the names Vaughn or Bristow were on the list of people allowed to see him.  
  
At least Jack hoped it was an error. Heads would definitely wish they were rolling if it was some departmental ploy to discipline them, or to try and show who was in charge.  
  
"Open the door." Vaughn requested tersely to the agents guarding the door.  
  
"Name and ID please."  
  
"Bristow and Vaughn." Jack answered, since Vaughn seemed cut off to anything except the door in front of him and what lay beyond it.  
  
"I'm sorry sir, but those names don't appear to be on the list."  
  
"Just open the fucking door" Vaughn ground out, never taking his eyes off the door.  
  
"Unless you're authorised personnel, I'm afraid I can't let you through." The note of fear in the agent's voice was palpable, even to his partner who decided to take control of the situation by physically restraining Vaughn -who was using a modified code descrambler Marshall had made him, to get the access code.  
  
"Sir you can't use that here. I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to..."  
  
Before the man had even moved into position, Vaughn was on him -his arm wedged deeply against the terrified agent's larynx.  
  
"Don't. Even. Think. About. It." He never raised his voice. He knew he didn't have to. "Now you or your partner are going to get on that phone, ring extension 1013 -which should take you straight to Director Devlin- and tell them that Agent Vaughn and Agent Bristow want unrestricted access to cell DD1121. And then ask, just who the fuck wrote up these lists. Ok?"  
  
Feeling the agent's attempt at a nod, Vaughn let him go unconcernedly and returned his full focus to the door.  
  
He blocked out Jack's disapproving gaze, he blocked out the harsh gagging and coughing of the agent he had just terrorized, he blocked out the muted, hurried whispers of the other agent...all he wanted to hear were the tumblers of the locks moving.  
  
"You can go right through sir." The other agent -the one he hadn't made temporarily mute- nervously told him, careful to stay well out of reach.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
Vaughn's politeness worried Jack more than his violence did. The violence was expected; God knows he himself had been about to physically persuade those men to let them in, but the sharp swings from violence to seeming normality that Vaughn was displaying...that worried Jack.  
  
The last time Vaughn had been like that, it had taken close to a year to get him back, and even then it was tacitly understood that he was only playing by the rules -albeit their version of the rules- because of what he had to do.  
  
Before he could enter, Jack pulled him back.  
  
"Agent Bristow?" The studied formality let Jack know just how close Vaughn was to the edge.  
  
"I need you to know something." An infinitesimal nod of the head was all Jack got to let him know Vaughn was listening "I need to know if you'll be able to stay in control in there"  
  
"I promise I won't let him scar." Vaughn bit out, before turning his back on Jack and walking into cell DD1121.  
  
************************************  
  
Arvin Sloane had shriveled through years of looking over his shoulder, but to Vaughn he was the embodiment of most of his nightmares, both waking and sleeping. It seemed strange that such a physically unimposing person had ruled his existence -in one way or another- for close to five years. The urge to hurt him was strong, surpassed only by the urge to see him pay for everything he'd done. It was that urge which kept Vaughn sane ... barely.  
  
For the first time in two years though, Vaughn found himself in the position of observer rather than interrogator. Both he and Jack knew that if he alone were to ask the questions, Arvin Sloane would not survive the first session. As it was they needed him to survive, since he had vital information about Rambaldi that the CIA needed.  
  
"Ahhh Jack... I should have known that betrayal was in the genes. I have to congratulate you though; you're definitely a better actor than your daughter. Although I know I don't need to labor that point." The smooth ironic tones of Sloane quickly reminded Vaughn of the dangers of letting his mind wander.  
  
"A pleasure Arvin. Truly." He kept control, but Sloane saw the muscle twitching in his jaw and smiled as all sated predators do. Done with Jack for the time being he turned his attention to the stoic young man next to his ex-associate.  
  
"And you...you I also know...you were in the pictures they showed me...ah, a name to a face...you could only be the famous Agent Vaughn...I've heard a lot about you ...you have to excuse me though, I'm a little hazy on some things ...deciphering delirious ramblings is really a very tricky process. "  
  
The crack of bone against flesh whipped through the room and Jack knew he had broken Sloane's jaw. In actual fact he had probably just done a favour, Vaughn wouldn't have stopped there.  
  
"Please do me the courtesy of paying attention Arvin. God knows I had to sit through enough of your long-winded, pompous, directives. Now I want to know about Rambaldi. I want to know, what you know about The Final Design."  
  
"No you don't" The answer was calm if muffled by the blood pooling in Sloane's mouth " The CIA wants to know about Rambaldi. Neither you, nor Mr Vaughn give a damn about what exactly Rambaldi's final invention was. You want to know about Sydney. You want to know how she died. You want to know who killed her. You want to know if she was in pain. Isn't that right Jack? And what about you Mr Vaughn? Don't you want to know? I know you do. You want to know about the screaming, the pain-soaked rambling, all the indignities she had to suffer, the ..."  
  
He got no further. The tenuous grip Vaughn had hung onto slipped, and before Jack could do anything Vaughn was on Sloane, beating him with a fury so focused, it took Jack and the two other agents -who had been hovering outside- a full minute to get him away off Sloane.  
  
"She called for you continuously you know." Sloane hissed -through broken teeth- at the man being restrained in front of him "She was so certain you would save her. One sentence over and over again through the delirium .... 'He's my guardian angel'. She thought you would save her Mr Vaughn. Even with her last breath she believed that."  
  
The second blow Jack dealt Sloane knocked him out. Paying no more attention to the bloody heap, Jack turned his attention back to Vaughn who stood limply between two terrified agents.  
  
"You two," he ordered the silent partners "take Sloane and get him some medical treatment. If anyone questions what happened, direct them to me. Do you understand?"  
  
With quick nods, and quicker movements, the agents left the room, with their unconscious cargo in tow.  
  
"I can't be here Jack." The sharp staccato of Vaughn's words broke the heavy silence of the room "I can't do it. I'll kill him if I stay and right now, I can't see the downside to that. What happens now Jack? Two and a half years ago you gave me a reason to get up every morning. I did it. It's done. Now what? I thought getting Sloane would be enough, but all I feel is ...nothing. And really should we stop with Sloane? True he made her life hell, but so did the CIA for that matter...so did I "  
  
With a shuddering sigh Vaughn looked up, and Jack saw just how old his soul had grown in the last few years. Vaughn was so much older. Older than him by years. Not bothering to wait for a reply, Vaughn left.  
  
**************************************  
  
He wasn't really surprised by Jack's impromptu visit; it had turned a habit of his in fact. At least once a week Jack found a way to wind up at his apartment, always with work of course, but always making sure that the house was suicide-free.  
  
The time he had tried, he really hadn't expected Jack of all people to stop him, or find him for that matter. He had thought Eric probably, he had hoped not his mother and as the Finlandia slid down his throat whilst he detachedly watched the blood pool around him, he thought that most likely it would be his landlord. Rent was due the day after, after all.  
  
Frankly he still wasn't sure if it could really be classified as a suicide attempt or not. It was more a case of self-mutilation gone wrong, or maybe just a little too right. He hadn't thought that anyone had noticed his new penchant for pain, but he had underestimated the acumen of Jack Bristow.  
  
He had appreciated Jack's intervention then, but this time he definitely didn't. The sweet sharp sting of the blade had calmed him to the point where he no longer heard Sloane's words ringing in his ears, but Jack's continuous pounding wouldn't let him stay there.  
  
Knowing there was no point to ignoring him -Jack had broken the door down before- Vaughn swiftly saw to the blood and then opened the door to a strangely disheveled and visibly excited Jack Bristow.  
  
"I have your reason for you Vaughn. It may just be a reason for both of us."  
  
End Part 1  
  
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	3. The Wasteland

Title: There But For The Grace Of You, Go I.  
  
Rating: R  
  
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)  
  
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice  
  
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.  
  
Notes: Forgive the long silence but Real Life had me in her grip and refused to let go. This chapter is short, I am aware of that, and considering the time lapse between chapters I'm sure many are cursing me that I am still 'teasing' you with what's to come, but you would not believe how tricky it was to write this without it being complete dreck, as it stands I am still unsure as to the dreck content of this chapter. Console yourself with the promise that I have not forgotten this fic, in fact I spend an inordinate amount of time thinking which would be the best way to write what and phrase that. You can also console yourself with the fact that the next chapter is already half written and you will get definite answers in this one. So before the notes become longer than the chapter...here goes  
  
Chapter 2  
  
The Waste Land  
  
April was indeed the cruelest month. A month where the ever-present ache of loss and regret, raged into a searing hyper-awareness. Memories of moments lost would parade through his head relentlessly; of missed birthdays -so many of those-; of happy childhood parties -achingly few of those- and most of all, of holding the soft bundle that was his newborn daughter, and knowing utter peace.  
  
Perhaps that's why there was such symmetry to it all.  
  
But perhaps it only made a fucked-up kind of sense because his vision had been whiskey-soaked for the last hour -or three. The last time he dove of the wagon was after Sydney told him that Laura -Irina- was still alive. He had enjoyed jumping off with a vengeance that time. This time however, he wanted to dive of the edge of the world, and no amount of whisky could help him accomplish that.  
  
The bartender eyed him speculatively. The very nature of very job brought her up close and personal with the human face of tragedy and misery far more often than she liked, but the man in front of her, he scared her - actually, she found herself scared for him. Here was a man teetering on the edge- the edge of what she wasn't sure and frankly she didn't want to know.  
  
Tending bar was her 'thing', not listening to life sagas or playing mother therapist. The last time she had, the guy had rambled on about conspiracies, truth and other 'spookiness', which would have been easier to shrug off if he hadn't been shot later, or if the bar hadn't closed due to the extremely dead, decomposing, old man found in the stockroom; at that point she had packed up her bags, and left DC, hoping that LA would be a different story. She should have known that her luck would automatically preclude any hope of that.  
  
Looking at the man in front of her however, actually made her long for her old friend 'Spooky'. He had been at the end of his rope; this guy, he wanted to wrap that end around his throat and pull.  
  
Without asking she poured him another shot, and without looking he downed it in a swallow.  
  
She wondered if tonight would follow the same pattern as other nights. Usually about an hour after the man came in, a younger man would follow, join him and then proceed to drink at least a bottle each of very expensive vodka with him, in complete silence.  
  
It was unnerving to say the least, but she couldn't help but watch them. Maybe it was the faint traces of the art student still left in her, but their grief was awe-inspiring. It was not showy, or flamboyant, rather, it was indelibly marked on -and into- their faces. She often wondered whom it was they mourned. What sort of person could inspire grief that no amount of time could heal?  
  
Wrapped up in her thoughts, she missed seeing the younger man join his 'drinking buddy' but she didn't miss his refusal, when offered the first customary shot. It was so out of their normal routine, she couldn't help eavesdrop on the conversation. It went against everything she had been taught, but she felt compelled to know what made today different.  
  
"Are you sure you won't have something?" There was a definite note of surprise in the older man's voice, and this alone made his question significant. From what she knew, it was nearly impossible to surprise him.  
  
"Not tonight, I can't afford to be sloppy tomorrow."  
  
"Bullshit Michael." The calm tone did nothing to mask the importance of his words. She found herself, holding her breath waiting for the younger man's -Michael's- reaction.  
  
A tiny upward movement of his mouth was, she guessed, a smile. Or as close to a smile as they ever got.  
  
" I just don't think it will work tonight Jack." He - Michael- finally replied to his companion. "And, tonight, I don't think I want it to." The admission had obviously cost a lot to actually say out loud, and a convulsive flash of sympathy, empathy and a thousand other emotions she couldn't name, passed across the older man's face.  
  
"She would have been thirty-one tomorrow." The sentence had all the earmarks of a non-sequiter to her, but it obviously didn't to Michael. He closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them again, she had to look away; his grief had a brilliance to it that blinded her.  
  
"I don't want to do this tonight, Jack. I don't want forget her tonight. I've looked down too many bottoms of bottles to know that it just doesn't work that way. There's never a time I don't see her, and tonight, tonight I just can't pretend...I don't want to. Tonight, I just want to remember Sydney. I owe her that. We both do."  
  
It was the most that he had ever spoken in front of her, and his passion was the most terrifying thing she had ever witnessed. She found herself praying devoutly that she never loved a person as intensely as Michael had and did so obviously love his 'Sydney'. Still, there was a tiny part of her, which mourned as much as the rest of her rejoiced. No one had ever loved her like that, no one ever would.  
  
As they left the bar, she somehow knew for certain that she would see neither man again. How she knew, she couldn't say, she just did. She was spooky that way. 


	4. Rhapsody On A Windy Night

Title: There But For The Grace Of You, Go I.  
  
Rating: R  
  
Category: Romance/Angst (dark images shall abound at first, and this Vaughn is not going to be Fluffy Bunny Vaughn)  
  
Spoilers: Nothing past Season 1  
  
Disclaimer: They're not mine. It took me 24 steps to admit that. I had to do the class twice  
  
Summary: Rambaldi gives Vaughn a second chance he'd thought impossible.  
  
Notes: Surprise! News of my death has been exaggerated but not by much I gotta say! Seriously though, I must apologise for the delay, but hey on the bright side of things, the angst should severely decrease from here on in and you actually get some answers. Kind of. Although they do pose many more questions.  
  
I should mention that all mistakes are my own as I am beta-less, and I do apologise for any glaring ones, but I am posting this at 4am...need I say more?  
  
And btw for those who are not Eliot mad (why aren't you btw?), the first line is a bastardisation of the first line of Rhapsody on a Windy Night, more commonly known to some as 'Memory' from Cats.  
  
And without further adieu...on with the story  
  
Chapter 3  
  
Rhapsody On A Windy Night  
  
Midnight. Still early for any night in LA, but on this night even the pavement was silent. The moon shone down on the pier and onto the water, where waves lapped and sand and shore silently, hushed, waiting...  
  
It was the first time he had been to the pier since Sydney's death, and he found it disconcerting that despite all the many changes LA's cityscape had seen, this place remained the same. This was why he had refused to come back here. Here it was so easy to slip back into the pleasant fiction that he was waiting for her, that she was just a little late, that he would turn, would see her and would not feel the gnawing emptiness that he had carried around with him for too long now. But despite knowing all of this, he had come here tonight. It was not the first stop he had made on his impromptu stroll down memory lane, rather it was his last.  
  
He had gone to the warehouse, but the dankness only reminded him of the chill that pervaded right to the very core of him. He had gone to the train station, and as he sat waiting, it became painfully obvious that a scene where so many joyful reunions and tearful farewells would hardly be appropriate for this long overdue wake. So –almost desperately- he returned, back to the pier, to a place he had forsworn for so long, and as he listened to the sound of waves, he let the memories come. He did not hide from them, run from them, drink them away or resolutely close the door; instead he let each wash over him.

The mission had been nothing special, just a simple dead drop. Sydney had been disappointed when he'd told her that he wouldn't be meeting her for the usual debrief as Devlin had deemed it unnecessary, but he had joked with her about how for once she wouldn't have to worry about tails when driving.  
  
Jack had called him half an hour after the time she was meant to have passed that disc to their guy at the airport. He had been watching a Kings game; idly dreaming about when he would be able to share something as simple as this with her and it had actually taken a moment to register that the phone was ringing.  
  
It seemed wrong that he didn't 'know' before he picked up the phone. He somehow thought that the connection that he and Sydney shared would act as their personal alarm system. He'd always thought that if something went wrong, his gut would have warned him hours before, or he'd feel her calling him. As naïve as it was, he not only believed that, but took comfort in it. By the time he put down the phone he had stopped believing in anything at all.  
  
Instead of a disc being left at the appointed dead drop, Sloane had left Sydney's broken body, There for all to see. Her dignity stripped away and her beautiful features almost unrecognizable due to trauma, blood and god knows what else.  
  
Had it been anyone else breaking the news to him, Vaughn would have refused to believe it. Would have assumed it was a trap, a hideous joke, a test, anything but the truth. But it was Jack telling him, Jack who voice sounded as if he had eaten glass.  
  
The numbness that insulated him lasted only as long as his trip to the morgue. Jack had told him where Sydney was, and he had gone down, needing to see her one last time. Staring down it dawned on Vaughn that this was the first time he had seen Sydney nude and it struck him as exquisitely amusing and appropriate. The sound of his laughter echoed off all the metal hollowness of the morgue and he laughed until he was sick. Literally. One moment he was hysterical, the next moment he was on his knees retching violently with tears pouring down his face.  
  
Spent, he found himself falling forward, and but for a pair of hands, he would have crashed heedless, face first into his own vomit. Looking up through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the ravaged countenance of Jack Bristow. A man, who in a day had aged at least ten years. With his help, Vaughn got to his feet, and turning around once more to where the shell of Sydney lay, carefully covering her body with the sheet before he kissed her lips for the last and first time.  
  
And so he had lived –for want of a better word- a strange half-life, living not because he wanted to but because he owed it to Sydney . Moving from one mission to another, with empty Finlandia bottles as the punctuation, which broke up the days and nights, till Jack had come to meet him that second night. The night they had captured Sloane and the night that they had found out what The Final Design was really all about.  
  
All logic dictated that he should have thrown Jack out. It was too ridiculous, even for Rambaldi, and that was saying something, but Sloane believed in it and for some reason so did Jack and against his will so did Vaughn. He didn't know if it was belief so much as hope. The desperate hope that an inmate on death-row has when praying for clemency.  
  
A time machine.  
  
The CIA on realizing what Rambaldi's end project was terminated the research and the whole Rambaldi quest deeming it frivolous and just plain insane. But Jack and Vaughn knew better.  
  
At least they hoped they did. Desperate people do desperate things and Vaughn and Jack had reach and passed desperation several years ago.  
  
After months of studying in secret the specs and trying to deal with formulas that defied all modern teaching it was ready for it's first human trial. There was never a question of whom it would be.

Looking out onto the water, Vaughn let out a shuddery breath as he recalled every soul-destroying minute of the last couple of years. In a few hours it would be over either way. Either the machine would work, or he would be dead. Both he and Jack knew that this was not just Sydney's last chance but his own as well. If this didn't work, that was it for him. He had tried to live without her but he just couldn't do it anymore.  
  
Moving away from the pier Vaughn decided to head to one last place. One last place to make his night's pilgrimage complete.  
  
Standing in front of Sydney's gravestone he realised that this was the first time he had actually come here since the funeral.  
  
"Syd," He whispered hoarsely "Wish me luck for tomorrow."  
  
He found himself straining, as if to catch a hint of her voice on the gentle breeze that ruffled all the trees around him  
  
"I love you Sydney and I always will. I just wanted you to know that."  
  
Noticing for the first time the pale streaks that laced the overhead sky he hurried away, anxious to get back to a Past that was his only hope for their future.  
  
"Are you ready?" Vaughn found it hard to believe that Jack had actually asked him that question. He didn't think it was necessary to reply  
  
"Are you receiving all my alpha patterns?" He asked in reply, twitching the various leads attached to his head. "And are you sure that the serum's strength will work...on a human anyway?"  
  
"No I'm not sure," Jack snapped back "It's not an exact science Vaughn, you know that. All the test subjects weren't exactly in a position to tell us whether we successfully managed to send them back."  
  
"They were rats Jack! For fuck's sake what the hell is wrong with you?" Vaughn couldn't believe that Jack, Jack Bristow of all people was nervous before a mission.  
  
"What's wrong with me," Jack icily bit back "is that you are trialling an untested device designed by a mediaeval mystic. What's wrong is that any test we have done has rendered the test subject useless, in a permanent coma, their brainwaves following a pattern that cannot be mapped or explained. What's wrong is that even if this does work you won't come back. What's wrong is that..."  
  
"I don't care what happens to me Jack," Vaughn shouted, furious at Jack's sudden squeamishness.  
  
"But I do." Jack roared back. His legendary calm splintering and slicing through Vaughn's righteous fury.  
  
"I have to do this Jack...you know that." It was quietly said, but his last comment seemed to affect the man in front of him far more than his anger  
  
"I know."  
  
And with a nod of decision, Jack Bristow flicked the switch and device rumbled into awareness moving all around him like some out of control fair ride.  
  
Despite the sickening speed Vaughn felt calm, and in control in a way he hadn't been in years. All his senses seemed to have heightened and as everything spun in a blur before him he could here each of his heartbeats, and with each beat a picture formed in his mind of Sydney. Always Sydney.  
  
Sydney with her bozo red hair.  
  
Sydney yelling at him.  
  
Sydney smiling tentatively.  
  
Sydney crying.  
  
...Sydney  
  
And then everything stopped.  
  
The sickeningly fast movement of the machine.  
  
The visions.  
  
His heartbeat.  
  
And as he opened his eyes, Vaughn's felt himself re-born. Everything that was once so important meant nothing, and everything that he had thought so complicated so was so damned easy, because not more than ten feet away from him sat Sydney. Younger than she had ever been when he had known her. But so beautiful it made him ache.  
  
And though Vaughn knew his mission had just begun, for just a moment he allowed himself to hope. 


End file.
